Before you come to bed

I slip under our faded
down comforter and in between
our pale blue jersey sheets,
wrinkled with signs of sleep

and stretch my toes down
touch each sock stuck
in the tucked in sheets

and press my nose deep
into our bed, past the smell
of your after shave
and our sleeping bodies
to where the sheets still smell new

then, drag my hand down
to that rust colored stain
from when my period came
too early and the thought
of waiting on our love making
seemed impossible.

Tracing Grandpa

Like a statue, he sits
silent, still, representing
the memory of a man.

As the IV clings
to his forearm, dripping
life into his violet veins
Nana traces her finger
along the cracks of his face
like she's searching
for directions on a faded map
studying
83 years of experience
chiseled into his cheeks and forehead
remembering
a life of boundaries
his love, like barbed wire
keeping her at a distance
unless she wanted the scars.

But now he sits silent
thinning like an icicle in thaw
with bruises, like inkblots, dying
the paper thin skin of his hands.